Through The Lens
by Moonlit Tides
Summary: When Robin Wood suspects his wife, Mayor of New York Regina Mills of being unfaithful he seeks out private investigator Emma Swan to uncover the truth. What starts out as a case like any other, soon develops into a tangled web of overbearing lust, all consuming passion and unquenchable desire that Emma could've never predicted. Swan Queen AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Update: I am not currently updating this story but have a full plan for future chapters and aim to start updating again by the end of 2018. Thank you to those of you that have favourited, followed and reviewed so far and I hope you'll all stick around to see where this story goes.**

 **Rated M** , because there will be _sexually explicit content_ in later chapters.

* * *

The blaring sounds of my alarm rip me from my peaceful slumber, causing my brain to vibrate in my skull. With a loud groan, I clumsily shift across the mattress on my front and reach my right hand out for my phone before hitting the snooze button, not once opening my eyes. My bedroom is still cloaked in darkness and there's _no way_ I'm getting out of bed before sunrise. Just as I settle back down, my phone explodes again and this time I prop myself up on my hands and grab my phone to see the screen flashing with a reminder, "Client at 8am get your ass out of bed!" I turn over onto my back and flop my head down onto the pillows, more groans escaping me as I realise that no matter how warm, cosy and compelling my bed is, I have to leave it. I steal 5 or so more minutes in bed, with my phone in my hand. I open up Todoist and Calendly - the two apps I'm completely reliant on for managing and organising every aspect of my life, not just work - to double check my appointments, in the hope that I've made a mistake and don't actually have a client at 8am. Unfortunately, both apps confirm that I have an appointment with Mr. Wood at 8am, forcing me to finally give in and climb out of bed.

Part of my job is working at all hours of the day and night, never having a routine and it's one of the reasons I've always loved it, but I certainly don't enjoy these rare early morning get-ups. I'm a night-owl and always have been. That's why it's so difficult for me to drag myself out of bed on those early mornings, because I've likely had a maximum of three hours sleep. Today it's four, so that's an improvement.

With sleep being so precious to me, I only allocate half an hour to get myself ready when I do have to be up early. Today that's just about enough time to wash, brush my teeth, pull my hair up into a pony tail, get changed into some presentable clothes and whip around my small one bedroom apartment with the vacuum, whilst gulping down a few mugs of black coffee and scoffing slices of burnt toast in between.

Just as I'm throwing the final few boxes of empty take-out into the trash, I hear the buzzer. With a quick spray of the air freshner sitting on the kitchen counter, I dash for the intercom.

"Miss. Swan? I'm Robin, Robin Wood. We have an appointment," a male voice calls.

"Yes, Mr. Wood. I'll just buzz you up, it's apartment 20, third along on the second floor."

I try to be as specific as possible to ensure he doesn't get lost and my instructions must've been clear because it's less than a minute before I hear a heavy rap on the door. No matter how many clients I meet, I always find it exciting, because each client and each case is unique and teaches me something new about myself, about life. Who's going to be standing at the other side of that door this time? What is he going to ask of me? Where will this case lead me to? The beginning is always the most thrilling part for me because of the endless questions and possibilities.

"Mr. Woods, I'm Emma Swan. Please, come in," I say extending my hand out to the man standing before me.

There's a hint of uncertainty in his blue eyes, but he confidently and firmly shakes my hand and steps over the threshold. I gesture towards the couch, inviting him to sit and his brow furrows slightly as though he was expecting some grand office with an oak desk, tall bookcases, bay window and leather couch.

He sits and I perch myself in the arm chair across from him, taking the time to get a better look at him. Many skills are required in this job and although I posses all of them - the one exception being keen organisation, which I'm constantly trying to improve in - the one I'm strongest in is reading and analysing people.

His posture is self-assured, with his back up straight and his legs spread, but his flitting eyes reveal the hint of anxiety in the pit of his stomach. He pulls his black leather coat around himself, an unconscious way of trying to protect himself. When his eyes fall back to me he breathes in deeply and his expression hardens, his attempt at trying to prevent me from reading him. Not that it ever works, he, just like all of my other clients is completely transparent.

"Can I get you a drink?" I ask.

"Some water."

This exchange reveals even more about him. He's insecure, but doesn't want to convey that by being too afraid to accept my offer of a drink, so he's almost demanding it as a way of showing me that he's strong, decisive and unafraid. He's not being very convincing so far.

These snap judgement I make of my clients are nearly always right, but it's not required of me. I do it for fun and because I can, but ultimately all that is important in these initial meetings is for me to collect all the information necessary to begin the case and receive the fees upfront.

Placing the glass of water he asked for on the coffee table in front of him, I say, "So, Mr. Wood, you were rather vague in the email you sent, so what brings you here today?"

He clears his throat and squares his shoulders.

"My wife. We've been married for three years now and..."

I sigh inwardly. So this isn't going to be one of the exciting cases. Just another person suspecting their spouse of being unfaithful. How utterly dull. Nonetheless, I listen intently to what he has to say and jot down notes. I'm in no position to turn down work, no matter how ordinary and underwhelming the case may seem.

Once he begins to reveal his reasons for being here, his seems to forget all about the mask he had been attempting to wear earlier and I see that he is nothing more than another lonely, broken man trapped in a miserable life and loveless marriage.

Over the years I've notice that the line between private investigator and therapist often seem to become blurred and it does now, as I'm forced to sit and listen to a man I've known all of 5 minutes confide in me about his wife's endless work commitments that she just can't get out of, out of state weekend conferences and late nights at the office. I'm running on empty and I can practically hear my bed calling my name, and for a while I humour him and nod along sympathetically, but I soon run out of patience.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Wood, but I'm a PI not a therapist." It comes out a lot more harshly than I intended and for a moment I could swear that I see his bottom lip tremble. "What I meant to say is, I have other appointments that I need to attend." The most important of which is the one with my bed.

"Oh, of course. I understand, I'm sorry. It's embarrassing for me to be admitting any of this to anyone, let alone a stranger, but I didn't know what else to do. I love my wife and I don't want to lose her, but I need to know the truth."

That is the driving force behind every single one of my clients: the pursuit of the truth. The problem is, when I find it and hand it to them on a plate, most aren't able to accept it.

"And that is exactly what my job is - to find the truth, and if you decide to hire me, I can guarantee that I will find it for you, Mr. Wood. I understand that due to the fact that I'm not part of one of the more well-known and trusted companies, that you may have some doubts and questions. So I have here some written recommendations from previous clients and-"

"Miss. Swan, that won't be necessary. I've seen your website and I you came recommended to me from a close personal friend. I know what you can do and that is why I came to you. I want answers and I want them fast, but I also need there to be...discreetness."

I frown slightly at that. What does he mean by discreetness? Being a PI requires the highest level of confidentiality and privacy that exists and discreetness is an absolute given.

"It's my wife, you see. She's...well she's a know figure here in New York."

Now I'm _really_ intrigued.

He reaches down and unzips the black laptop case that sits beside him on the carpet and fishes out a brown A4 envelope. The envelope is full and bulging and when I unseal it the first thing I see is an A3 photograph. I slide it out and take it into my hands. The woman on the photograph is dressed impeccably in a black pencil skirt and white shirt and I can't seem to stop my eyes from wandering across her, examining every inch of her. Her dark bob, blood red lips and intensely rich eyes are immediately familiar to me, although I can't quite place where I've seen them before. _Where have I seen them before_?

As though on cue, Mr. Wood answers my question. "This is my wife, Regina Mills. Mayor of New York."


	2. Chapter 2

The pieces immediately fall together in my mind and I know now where I recognise her from. Mayor Mills is regularly featured in the New York press and is known for being controversial. She's always receiving media attention for the latest scandal or unconventional off the bat remark she's made. Maybe I've been wrong all along. Maybe this won't be just another in a long series of predictable infidelity cases ending in endless court proceedings and eventual divorce.

The photograph is still cradled in my hands and for some reason I can't seem to take my eyes off of it. Off of _her_. Politics is an area I make a point of steering clear of, but seeing this photograph is enough to make me reconsider. Maybe I'll start investing in a copy of the Times.

"Now you understand why I need someone that's discreet," Mr Wood says, breaking my gaze from the photograph. "My wife is a known figure here in New York and if...well if the media got hold of this they'd have a field day. The last thing I need is to have the private matters of my marriage splashed across the papers."

I nod. "Of course. I understand."

"At the moment the press take no interest in my wife when she's out of the office. We're lucky enough that a level of privacy has always been maintained and I would like to keep it that way."

I can't help but start to feel a little insulted at his insinuation that I'm not discreet or professional enough for him to entrust such a personal matter to me. I may have come recommended to him by a friend, but that friend clearly didn't share much about my ways of working. Even if Mr Wood's wife wasn't a political figure in the public eye I would still conduct myself in a discreet manner and all details of the case would be completely confidential. That's the only way I work,and I never slip up or make mistakes. Whatever issues a client brings to me, whatever they ask of me, it always remains in these four walls. I take my work seriously and devote myself to it completely. It's the reason I live such a solitary lifestyle. This line of work makes it difficult for anyone to get close because of the complete lack of openness that goes with it. When a friend or partner asks what I've spent my day doing, I can't tell them much more than, "You know, work." After a while that just doesn't cut it and people walk away to find someone that will actually let them into their lives. I don't care much. I do better on my own anyway. A result of spending my life bouncing from foster home to foster home.

"As I've already said, Mr Wood, I can assure you that every case I take on is completely confidential. It's kind of a given. After all, it's in the title. _Private_ investigator."

Mr Wood frowns for a moment and then cracks a smile as he catches onto my joke.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I suppose this is just all so new to me and I'm-"

"You're unsure of your decision, that's only natural."

He nods. "But like I said, I want the truth. I _need_ the truth. That's why I brought this with me."

He reaches into the laptop case and pulls out a bulking file so full that it's practically bursting at the seams.

"What is all of this?" I ask curiously.

"It's everything you need to know about my wife. Her contact numbers and addresses for her office, our house, any friends she has, all of her social media account details, her schedule, where she goes to the gym, the bars she likes to drink at and restaurants she likes to eat at. Everything. It's all in here."

He places them onto the table and I stare on at him in stunned silence. Clients generally offer me the basics upon which I can begin a case, but I've never had a client _this_ prepared before. It seems that he's forgotten nothing and at this point I find myself wondering what he even needs me for.

Having seen my surprised expression he asks, "Is this not how it works? Should I have not brought all of this stuff?"

"No, it's not that. It's just...I'm struggling to understand why you'd want to hire me when you already seem to have all the skills and tools to get this job done yourself."

I'm usually not one to talk someone out of hiring me, particularly when I'm in such desperate need of the cash but I can't help but question him.

"Because I know my wife. Regina is smart and she's cunning and she's manipulative. If she gets even a sniff that I might be following her or watching her, there'll be hell to pay. Regina is a lot things, but forgiving isn't one of them."

I nod and he inhales deeply, before meeting my eyes.

"To put it plainly, Miss Swan, if she really is betraying me and this ends in divorce, I'm not walking away empty handed."

The vulnerability and uncertainty on his face slips away and I see a different look in his eyes now - a ferocity and determination that makes me realise he's not the placid and heartbroken man he would paint himself to be. He claims his wife is cunning and manipulative, but I have the feeling he is just as much, though he may be better at concealing it.

"I have my own ways of making money but my earnings are a fraction of my wife's. The lifestyle we've become accustomed to wouldn't have been possible if she hadn't become Mayor."

Now I fully understand his motivations. He's not here because of love as I first thought, he's here because of money and self preservation. In fact, I'd bet my life that he's hoping that I catch his wife doing the dirty so that he can get the payoff, escape what appears to be a marriage long since dead and set up somewhere new.

It's not the first time a client has come to me for the exact reason Mr Wood has and it certainly won't be the last, but I find myself fighting to conceal my disapproval. Even if his wife is cheating on him does that really give him licence to steal the money that she has earned through hard work, commitment and dedication? What's that saying? Two wrongs don't make a right. Seems fitting.

But despite it's immoral nature and the fact that it falls under the category of "complete and utter cliche", I don't want to let it slip through my fingers and so I find myself saying, "So, Mr Wood, I think that it's about time we got down to crossing the T's and dotting the I's."

* * *

No sooner than the door has closed behind Mr Wood, I'm sitting at the couch sifting through the contents of the paperwork he left for me. It's strange, I've seen Mayor Mills on TV or in the paper more times than I can count, but never paid much attention to her. Politics is a subject I make a point of steering well clear of, but as I stare down at the photograph I begin to reconsider my stance on politics.

Those dark alluring eyes, that plump maroon pout and that elegant skirt that clings to her curvaceous body in all of the right places... Something clenches at my center. I shake my head, brush it off and go to make a glass of water. I gulp down the entire glass in a matter of seconds and now realise just how utterly dry my mouth was and how hard my heart is beating.

There's always something so thrilling about delving into someone's world, digging through their personal life and learning the secrets they've been keeping hidden. It reminds me just how complex and intricate humans are and that even the people closest to someone often don't know who they truly are. Mr Wood seems confident that he knows his wife and his description of her as being smart and manipulative echoes in my mind. Is that the real Mayor Mills? Or is that merely who she pretends to be with him? Or the version of her he chooses to see? Only time will tell.

The stereotypical image that people imagine when they think of a PI is one that somewhat lines up to that of someone working for MI5 and the reality is that the job comes with a tonne of paperwork and hour long stake-outs that often turn up no results. It's a job where each day is different than the next - which is what I love about it - but some of those days can be utterly stagnant and mind numbingly boring. However, the one common denominator in every case I've ever worked on is that the beginning is always the most exciting part. So the fact that my pulse is racing, palms are sweating and I can't stop my body from jittering with anticipation is nothing to do with the fact that Mayor Mills is - some would argue - attractive. No, not at all. I'm a professional and all that matters to me is that I'm able to deliver the cold hard facts to my client at the end. Besides, it's not like I'd ever be able to actually meet her. It would completely derail the case and obliterate the pride I have in my work along with my reputation. Anyway, why would I even care to meet her? A controversial politician that spends her spare time at expensive cocktail bars sipping on mojitos and going to pilates. No, thank you. Her life is nothing but a social construction, an additional branch of her political persona.

My job means I've gained insight into many lives that I wouldn't have otherwise had the chance to and I understand better than anyone the lies upon which they're often built, and the modern world only makes it easier with the domination of smart phones and social media. Now people actually carry their life inside a small electronic device that sits in their pocket, which they have instant access to enabling them to construct whatever they want to project to the outside world whenever they please.

Don't get me wrong, I'm no tech snob. I'm not one of those types of people preaching about how there were no such things as cells and laptops in my day (even though there wasn't) and how today's generation has been corrupted by technology, because I don't believe that. Technology not only makes my work more constructive, time effective and precise, but also enables me to have take-out delivered to my front door at 3am. Why would I ever complain about that?

But as for the Tweets, Facebooks, Snaps and all the rest of it, that is something I only delve into when it's necessary to learn more about an individual or business I've been hired to investigate. In terms of personal use, I never feel the need to have my life validated by mere acquaintances or people I've met once and am likely to never see again. There's nothing about myself or my life that is a construction, what you see is what you get. I believe in the life I live and I live it quietly. It's really that simple.

My ability to see the world in such black and white terms is why I excel in what I do. Emotions cloud judgement and that certainly never happens to me. I am in control of every aspect of my life and that's exactly the way I like it.

* * *

I spend the rest of the afternoon and evening immersed in Mayor Mills' life and quickly learn that unlike me, she _doesn't_ live quietly. Just browsing through her Facebook is enough to tell me that. Every other photo is her at a party, club, bar or social event and there are endless articles and headlines about her latest antics or controversial topics she's been discussing. Mr Wood said that their privacy was protected to a large extent, but it almost seems that Mayor Mills deliberately seeks out the camera lens. There are hundreds upon hundreds of photos of her and amongst them, there is not a single unflattering one.

My job requires me to take an interest in the subject of my investigation, but often it is forced and I get easily distracted with procrastination, opting to play PS4 or watch a movie instead of working. But not today. The intrigue doesn't have to be faked, my attention is utterly fixated on Mayor Mills, so much so that it's not until 9pm that I realise I haven't ate anything since breakfast.

I order Chinese and shut my laptop down, my eyes feeling tired from hours staring at a screen. When the food arrives, I take back to the couch and scoff down egg rolls, returning my attention to the documents Mr Wood gave me. I must've studied each one at least twice now, but still I find myself going back to them, particularly the photographs. I'm not sure where my head's at as I spend countless minutes just staring down upon the image, studying every inch of her, my eyes sweeping up and down again and again, just as I've done all day with the other five hundred photos I've seen of her. I'm so mesmorised that it takes me a few minutes to even realise I'm doing it, but when I do, I let out a scoff, shake my head and discard the photograph hastily.

Overthinking is not something I do a great deal of, so I simply dismiss my behaviour, return the contents spread across the coffee table into the file and put it away, determined that I won't look at or think about anything remotely related to the case or more specifically, Mayor Mills, until tomorrow.

I turn the TV on, flop back on the couch and continue to eat dinner. Despite having barely ate all day, I don't have much of an appetite but force the rest of the food down. I feel restless and despite knowing I should go to bed since I have an early start tomorrow, I decide to go out. I have so much pent up energy and hopefully a walk, couple of stiff drinks and some company will release it so that I can get a good night's sleep.

Living in the city, there is no end of choices as to where to drink, but over the last five years or so the streets have become overrun with swanky new cocktail bars and restaurants. I rarely visit places like that and have only been on the rare occasion when a client insists we meet in a public place or when I've dabbled in online dating and my date believed it was the right setting for a romantic evening. It's not that I don't like places like that, I just prefer a different vibe.

It's a 40 minute walk to the Old Tavern, a traditional tavern that is more than double my age, crooked, dingy and so old that the smell of ale and cigarette smoke has been absorbed into the walls. Most people would probably wonder why I'd choose to drink here when I could afford to drink somewhere so much more up market, but the answer is simple - I love it here. With live music, comfy chairs, fairly priced drinks and a wide range of ales - which happens to be my drink - it's impossible to go wrong. I even like the smell of old ale and stale cigarette smoke that cloaks the room.

Since I've been drinking here years I'm friendly with the regulars and the staff, which is an added bonus, and not just because I sometimes get freebies. My work is solitary and since I have no family or friends, this is the only true social interaction I get. And although I've never meet with any of them away from the tavern, I have a bond and sense of camaraderie with them that is the closest to family and love I have in my life.

"Hey Emma," August calls as I perch myself on a bar stool. "Productive day at the office?"

"You could say that."

August begins pouring a pint, knowing me well enough to know what I drink and then he places it on the bar in front of me. I take a sip, let out an "ahhh" of appreciation and then glance around the room.

"Quiet tonight. Where is everyone?" I ask.

"Could be something to do with the fact that it's almost 11 on a Sunday night," August replies, pointing up at the clock above the bar. "Shouldn't you be in bed like all the other hard workers? You don't usually come in at this time. It's only an hour until closing."

"Just needed to get out for a bit, you know?"

August nods, but doesn't push any further. He's good like that. He always seems to know how to conduct himself in any given situation and exactly what to say or do to keep me at ease. Like most other bartenders he practically, he should have a degree in doling out advice and being a shoulder to cry on. Of all the people in my life he's the closest I've ever come to having a big brother. Although I'm tough enough to handle my own problems and usually opt to deal with my issues alone, I trust him enough that I would find no difficulty in confiding in him about what was on my mind. But in this instance, I wouldn't even know what to say, because what _is_ on my mind? I don't even know. All I know is that something is troubling me, which is apparent by the nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach that's been present since I first saw the photograph of Mayor Mills this morning.

* * *

I make the most of the hour I have in the tavern by enjoying August's company and consuming as much alcohol as possible. Usually I'm a slow drinker and can spend anything up to three hours nursing one pint, but tonight I get through four within the hour. August's chit chat and the merriment of the ale provides me with a much needed distraction as I finally switch off from work.

When closing time comes August escorts me out to my cab, the overprotective and caring soul that he is, and the second I step through the door into my apartment, I strip down and climb into bed, wanting to grab the opportunity to sleep whilst my mind is still quiet. I pull the sheets up to my chin, sink into the mattress and sigh softly, feeling pleased that the hour out provided me with the relief I needed.

I've come to the conclusion that I simply worked too hard today. Though the work isn't physical, it can be mentally and emotionally draining and I practically worked 12 hours straight today. It makes sense that I'd feel a little off. At least, that's what I try to convince myself. But no matter how much I try to justify the hours I've spent ogling photos of Mayor Mills and learning every single thing there is to know about her, deep inside I feel a gnawing sense of guilt that has been causing that pit in my stomach. It's as though I've done something I don't know...wrong. Or naughty.

Regardless, of what it is, I'm done fretting about it. Like I said, over-thinking and over-analysing isn't my thing. I make a conscious decision to write today off and reassure myself that tomorrow will be a new and brighter day, and that thought along with the four pints in my system provides me with enough comfort that I'm able to sleep, the image of Mayor Mills still at the forefront of my mind.


End file.
